


AU short fics

by VanillaMostly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-29 12:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11440722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaMostly/pseuds/VanillaMostly
Summary: Random AU scenarios. I'll continue posting as I write them.Obviously, lots of plot holes if you wanna think a lot about it, so don't think lol. just read.





	1. Arya As a Mummer

**Author's Note:**

> this one was written BEFORE i read Arya's sample chapter from Winds of Winter so clearly Izembaro's OOC. but heh, i like to imagine this is how it went

 

"Come here. I'll tie the back."

Practiced hands deftly secured the ribbons at her back. The gown was red, the same color as her shoes. Bright red that she would have liked to imagine as the red of freshly flowing blood, but in truth it was more like the sunsets of Braavos when the clouds hung over the water just so.

"Too tight?" Izembaro asked, noting her grimace.

"Couldn't I play a man?"

Izembaro smiled his strange smile, one by now she had learned meant her question would go unanswered.

"Let us brush out that pretty hair of yours, now," he said, leading her to a seat.

_My hair isn't pretty_ , she almost said, but this wasn't her hair, anyway. The wig they had given her fell long and heavy down her back, straight and fine strands so black they looked blue under the light. She had only seen hair as dark as this on Summer Islanders, but their hair tended to be curly and thick, not like this.

"Tilt your face up."

She did as she was told. Izembaro bent down, his face only centimeters from hers. She did not move. By now she had grown accustomed to the startling white-painted face, except for the eyes lined with red paint.

"Close your eyes."

She did.

Izembaro's hands were cool and dry, and felt a little wrinkly. Could he be as old as the Kindly Man? Age was a mysterious thing even with normal people, and he was a mummer. The King of Mummers, she had heard people calling him.

When Izembaro finished, he showed showed her a looking glass. It was as if they'd given her a new face. Her eyes were magnified with black kohl, two pits of darkness on her moon-white face. Beads covered her brow. Her hair was left as it was, but for one single red ribbon holding it back. Her lips were painted full, as red as her gown and her embroidered satin shoes.

_If Sansa were to see me..._

But no one had no sister named Sansa. And this time she wasn’t even no one. She was the role that Izembaro had given her. She was somebody but nobody real, a creation born from the tip of a quill.

“Are you ready?” Izembaro asked.

She glanced at the curtain. Words that had not appeared in her mind for a long time suddenly did at that moment. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

“Remember,” said Izembaro, “mummery is all about the illusion. _You_ no longer exist. You become who _they_ see.”

She relaxed. That should be easy. After all, that was no different from what she was already doing.


	2. Rhaegar Dies but Elia Lives

Lyanna was surprised when she saw the princess (or _queen,_ now). The last time she had seen Rhaegar’s wife, it had been at the tournament at Harrenhal, before the war happened, before betrayals and murder and fire ruined everything. At that time she had thought Elia to be sickly looking and slight, and had felt pity for her on top of the guilt. But now, it was as if a different woman stood before Lyanna in the throne room.

She still had the pallor of somebody in poor health, but she had never looked so _queenly._

Elia was not smiling. Lyanna did not expect her to smile at her husband’s mistress, especially after her husband died at the hand of the mistress’s former betrothed.

The two of them just looked at each other, each not saying anything.

Finally it was Elia who broke the silence.

“And what did you name him?”

It took Lyanna a moment to realize that Elia was talking about the babe in Lyanna’s arms.

“Jon,” murmured Lyanna. She blinked and added, bowing her head, “Your Grace.”

“‘Elia’ is fine.” The queen took a small step forward. “May I see him?”

Lyanna’s look of outrage must have been very poorly disguised, because Elia held up her hands immediately. “I swear,” she said softly, “on the lives of my own children, I will not hurt him. I just wish to look.”

Maybe it was because Elia was a mother as well. Maybe it was because her dark eyes at that moment looked so earnest and bright. Maybe it was because Lyanna also remembered that this was the woman who poisoned King Aerys, sent Robert to the Wall and put Tywin Lannister in chains.

Lyanna cautiously opened her arms so that Jon’s tiny sleeping face was exposed. Elia, just as cautiously, took a few more steps forward until she was bent over the babe’s swaddle.

“He is sweet,” she whispered.

Lyanna tensed, but something about the smile on Elia’s face as she gazed down at Jon stopped Lyanna from clutching Jon back against her chest.

“Aye,” said Lyanna instead, looking down at her son, too. “He doesn’t cry or fuss.”

“Rhaegar thought he would be a girl, you know.”

Lyanna nodded. “He wanted to name her Visenya.”

She paused after she said that, glancing uncertainly at Elia. It felt strange that they should be casually chatting about a man who fathered both of their children.

Elia straightened, looking back at Lyanna calmly. She seemed to understand the thoughts haunting Lyanna’s mind ever since the war had ended.

“I do not want trouble,” said Elia. “I want peace in this realm. I want my son to grow up safely. Not much more.” She cocked her head. “What do _you_ want, Lady Lyanna?”

“I want the same,” said Lyanna. She hesitated. “…and Winterfell. I want to return to Winterfell, with Jon.” She had to bite her lips to keep from crying, she wanted that so much.

Elia seemed to think about this.

“I will allow it,” said Elia.

Lyanna almost audibly gasped.

“On two conditions,” the queen continued. “One, your brother Ned Stark must stay to be my son’s Hand. Two, your son is betrothed to Daenerys, Rhaegar’s sister. They are just about the same age. Jon can stay with you until they are both of age to wed.”

Elia let that sink in.

“I know it is a lot, so you can think on it,” she said. She took one last lingering look at Jon before sweeping her skirts back, turning around. “I will call on you again tomorrow to hear your answer.”

Lyanna knew that was a dismissal. Before she left the room, she looked back at Elia, the weak, frail once-princess whom everyone had pitied and mocked but never feared. But Lyanna decided she wasn’t afraid of Elia. It took a while for Lyanna to find the right word for that feeling. It was awe.


	3. Arya Has to Marry Elmar, Runs Off with Gendry

As soon as she struck Arya, Catelyn regretted it. The sight of Arya staring back at her, hand to her cheek as tears began to well in her grey eyes was more than Catelyn could bear. She knew Ned would never have struck her. _Oh, Ned,_ thought Catelyn, and her heart was breaking.

“I’m sorry—“ she started to say, reaching to hold her daughter to her breast. But Arya pushed her away and ran.

“Leave her be,” said Robb. He came up to stand next to her. She looked at him, her sixteen-year-old son, who not long ago had also fought with her just like this, had glared at her in the same mixture of resentment and pain. He, like Arya, had every right to do so.

“I have failed you and your sister,” said Catelyn, struggling to keep the lump in her throat from rising.

“No, Mother,” said Robb. “You had no choice.” He placed a hand on her arm. “She will come around,” he said. “She will see. I’m… I’m happy with Roslin now, aren’t I?”

His smile just made Catelyn sadder. It was a smile a boy put on to comfort his mother. _You lie. You say that, but still wish for your Jeyne Westerling._

Catelyn closed her eyes, and prayed to Ned, and the gods old and new, that she had not sold her children’s happiness for a victory in war.

As the days went by, she really did start to think maybe the gods had heard.

Arya returned, sullen and numb but had allowed Catelyn to hold her and stroke her wild hair. Catelyn wondered what Robb had said to her. Arya even obliged to speak to Elmar Frey, even if it was in the shortest, rudest sentences possible.

Walder Frey, appeased that Robb had wed his favorite daughter, was keen to wait till Arya was old enough to wed his son. So Catelyn had a few more years. And besides, in that time, who knew where the war would lead them? She prayed, of course, that the war would not damage whatever liaisons the Starks had, including the Freys, but if fate were to conveniently play a hand…

 _The Freys share your grandchildren’s blood._ Even so, Catelyn could never think of them as her own kin.

She should have known, however.

A fortnight later, Arya vanished like a mouse into the night. The Freys hunted for her well into the morning. They returned with a maiden’s shoe of gray and white, torn apart almost to shreds. “Wolves,” the men said. They had also found bloodied remains, they said, avoiding Catelyn’s gaze.

Walder Frey’s fury at Arya’s disappearance faded into dull irritation at this news and was already onto reassuring the crestfallen Elmar that they would find him a better princess. Roslin wept, her tendency to cry made even more sensitive from the seed growing in her belly. Nobody questioned Catelyn when she said she would like to retreat to her chambers.

Robb was sitting at her table, hands holding his head. He looked up upon hearing Catelyn enter. They exchanged a look.

“I do hope she will be safe.”

“She will, Mother,” whispered Robb. “She has her friend, the blacksmith boy, and Uncle Brynden will meet them halfway. Besides, if her stories are true, she is more than adept at protecting herself.”

Catelyn sank into her chair. “But what if something goes wrong? What if they cross the Lannisters? What if somebody figures out who she is?”

“We have to have faith, Mother,” said Robb.

“I hope I did the right thing.”

Robb grinned. “I’m sure Arya would say that you did.”


	4. Sansa Actually Marries Joffrey

She had pictured wedding Joffrey a hundred times. There would be flowers showered upon her as she walked down the aisle, and all the ladies and lords of the realm would turn and whisper, “How beautiful.” Her train would be so long three maidservants would have to carry it. There would be her mother, wiping at her eyes, and her father, smiling his gentle smile. Her brothers would be cheering and Arya would be rolling her eyes but Sansa _knew_ she was really jealous inside. And then there would be the groom awaiting at the altar, Prince Joffrey. His golden hair shining perfectly.

She, Sansa, would become Princess Sansa. Every girl’s _dream!_

How foolish she had been.

The irony of it all was not lost on her as she took her walk down the aisle to wed Joffrey for real. Only now her father was dead, her mother and brothers were leagues away, and her sister was missing. Her gown was the kind of finery she had always wanted but how she hated it, clinched so tightly around her chest she could hardly breathe, the perfect metaphor for her situation. Sansa did not cry. She had all cried out her tears the night before, and the night and night before…

Queen Cersei was smiling in her fake way. Joffrey was sneering (how did she _ever_ think he was handsome?). Everyone else in attendance just looked uncomfortable. Sansa caught the eye of the Imp, who actually looked genuinely sympathetic, but she turned her face immediately, refusing to think of any Lannister as kind.

Intended as the ultimate humiliation, the Hound was to give her away in place of her father. But Sansa didn’t mind so much. Weirdly enough, the Hound had become someone familiar to her. He was Joffrey’s dog, but he had never hurt her. He had even saved her once. Today, she thought his normally hostile face looked somehow different as he had said softly, “Little bird,” outside the sept.

The Hound squeezed her arm, just barely, as they reached the septon. Sansa looked at him— and thought for a crazy moment that he would whip out his longsword right then and whisk her away from this dreaded place.

But he didn’t. He let go of her arm.

Sansa turned to face the septon. She was trembling, but strangely calm.

She thought of the cruelty she had faced, the blows and assaults and taunts she had already endured. She thought of her father, of how honorable and brave he had been, and yet he was killed. She thought of the childhood songs and stories she had loved, and how many of those turned out to be lies that let her down. But she, Sansa Stark, was born a Stark of Winterfell and nothing could change that.

Starks survived through the worst of winters. So would she.


	5. Rebellion Never Happened

 

It wasn’t fair. Aegon, Viserys, and Dany all had the silvery hair, purple eyes, and porcelain skin of the Targaryen lineage. Rhaenys favored her mother, brown eyes, the damned curly unmanageable hair, and dark complexion. Not to mention the short stature. She was the oldest child of the king and queen, but people seldom remembered her.

At ten-and-four, a time when a princess should have suitors lined up outside her door, she had _none._ Even ten-year-old Dany had more admirers (a disturbing thought for more reasons than one). Aegon would jest that he could marry her if nobody wanted to— uphold the family tradition— but the thought of marrying her little brother just made Rhaenys want to puke.

“Ma,” she would run to her mother and cry.

“Oh, love,” her mother would say, cupping her cheek. “You are beautiful.”

She didn’t believe her; all mothers said that.

One day, her mother replied with something else. “Why don’t you take a trip to Dorne and see your cousins?”

Rhaenys had been to Dorne before, but she had been very young, and her mother had always accompanied her. But now that her mother’s body was too frail to travel, she was giving Rhaenys permission to go _alone_. With a small retinue to keep her safe, of course, but she’d be going without the other children, without even Father or the septa telling her what to do.

“Yes, yes!” screamed Rhaenys.

They reached Dorne on a clear summer morning, the sun already starting to burn into Rhaeny’s skin even as she sat under a canopy. She was so excited at first, but you can only look at the desert for so long. A few hours later as she was dozing off, there came the sounds of horses approaching and shouts.

The knights accompanying her reached for their arms, but Rhaenys, squinting into the distance, quickly waved for them to stop.

“It’s Uncle!” she cried happily.

Oberyn waved from on top his horse. Flanking his sides were a couple more riders. _Women_ riders, Rhaenys saw as they got closer. Her heart thrummed in admiration. Dornish women could ride like that?

As soon as he unhorsed, Rhaenys ran into her uncle’s arms and he laughed, spinning her around.

“Rhaenys, you remember your cousins, Obara, Nym, Tyene, Sarella.”

Rhaenys didn’t remember very well, in fact, but Oberyn’s wink told her that that was alright. The four girls grinned at her as Oberyn named them. Rhaenys smiled back shyly.

“Well, Rhaenys? Pick your horse.”

She looked up at Oberyn, mouth hung open in shock.

“You’re in Dorne,” he said, smiling wickedly. “You must do things the Dornish way.”

_This is a dream,_ thought Rhaenys as five minutes later, she rode across the desert on a mare the color of red earth. Wind blew in her ears, her mouth tasted sand and she loved it. She wasn’t a good rider, but her cousin Nym, sitting behind her, was _better_ than good. With barely a nudge she got the horse sprinting so fast Rhaenys gasped. They were ahead of the others — but not for long. Oberyn, laughing, came up seconds after, and then came Obara, fierce and determined, Tyene, her long blond hair streaming, and Sarella, who looked closest to Rhaenys’s age, dark eyes sparkling.

Rhaenys looked at her uncle, then at her cousins. None of them looked like her Targaryen family, and all of them looked different from one another. None had that flawless, statuesque beauty that Rhaenys was so used to seeing around her. But there _was_ something to them— a wild sort of something— that made them incredible, made them as bright as the blazing sun.

Rhaenys, surrounded by them all, had never felt so beautiful.


	6. Arry Meets Alleras

Sarella was alone in her chambers when the light of the candles snuffed out. She stood, her arm tensed around the dagger she hid on her hips. “Sam, is that you?” she called. “Leo?”

But nobody answered.

She listened carefully as her eyes adjusted to the dark. And then, suddenly, the same time she heard the softest rustle behind her— a blade had appeared at her throat.

“Easy,” murmured Sarella.

A voice appeared at Sarella’s ear, low and steely. “I’m looking for Jaqen H’ghar.”

Sarella frowned. “Who?”

Immediately the blade pressed closer to her skin. “I know he’s here. He… he may have another name.”

“What does he look like?” Sarella asked carefully.

A hesitation. “I do not know. He may have a different face.”

A connection flickered in Sarella’s mind.

“I have an idea,” she said slowly, “but you need to remove the blade from my neck.”

The blade was removed about a finger’s breadth away, but the hand gripping Sarella’s robes did not let go.

“And I want to face you,” added Sarella.

“Why?”

“It just makes a conversation easier.”

A brief pause where Sarella imagined the person biting their lip, mulling it over. “Fine. But one wrong move, and I will kill you.”

Sarella believed it.

Her eyes had adjusted well enough to the dark now to make out the mystery stranger. They were smaller and slimmer than she had thought. They looked young, too, at least a few years younger than Sarella. _A child._

There was something else about them, too—for they were dressed in the garb of a male, but Sarella could not assign them a male pronoun in her head…

“You’re a girl,” said Sarella softly.

The blade dug into her throat again for that.

“W-wait,” said Sarella, “I won’t tell your secret.”

She ripped open her front, exposing her bound chest.

“Because I share it, too,” she said, smiling.

The girl stared at her, and scowled. But that got her to lower her blade. “What are you doing here? I thought the Citadel only let men in.”

Sarella sighed. “If I had a silver for every time someone said that…”

The girl shook her head, a quick, impatient jerk. “Tell me about Jaqen.”

“Why do you want to find him?”

The blade, again. _“I ask the questions_.”

This one’s feisty, thought Sarella. “I think I know who you are looking for. I will take you to him. I don’t care what you do to him, either. But…”

“What?”

Sarella took advantage of that one moment of curiosity, pushed the blade away and twisted the girl’s arm in one smooth motion.

“No more blade on my neck,” said Sarella, this time into the _girl’s_ ear. “I mislike it, little girl.”

She could make out the angry profile of the girl as she snapped, “I am a wolf.”

“And I am a snake. Maybe we ought to be friends.”


	7. Arya Stays with BWB, Joins with Her Mother

 

Arya discovered the body, flowing down the river. She knew it was her mother by the red of her hair, still vivid even in the murky water. She would have dove straight in except Gendry grabbed her and held her back. The minute Harwin and Lem and the others fished her mother out, Arya tore away from Gendry and flew to her mother’s side. Surely the blood trickling from her throat was still fresh? Save her, help her _, please_ , she shouted.

But the answer was in their eyes. _She’s dead._ Even the damn fat priest Thoros shook his head sadly at Arya.

Arya wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill them all. Why… why… She was so close— just this close to reaching her mother, and now she had, but— It was all their fault. It was all her fault. _She should’ve run away from the beginning, she should have, and then she might’ve made it to the Twins and saved Mother and Robb in time._

Just then a hush fell over them. Arya scrubbed the rain from her eyes and looked up. Lord Beric stood over her.

“Let me,” he said.

So Arya got her wish.

She had her mother back. She _did._ Her mother could move and stand and she could even speak, even if it wasn’t the voice Arya remembered, but that was only because the Freys had slashed her mother’s throat into strips. She watched her mother hang Merrett Frey and she thought, _he deserved it. He was a Frey and all the Freys were behind that wedding. He can hang but Walder Frey and Roose Bolton won’t. I’ll kill them myself._

Her mother hated, and so did Arya.

“You’ve changed,” Gendry said one night to her, when it was just them two by the fire.

“What do you mean?”

“You weren’t so… dark, like this.”

“Gendry, you saw me kill that guard at Harrenhal.” _And I've killed lots more where you didn't see._

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“You had to.”

“So does my mother. You heard what they did to her and my brother.”

Gendry just turned his back to her and said nothing. Arya chewed her lip, sulking. She knew Gendry disapproved of her mother’s work, she knew quite a number of the brotherhood did— some had even left— but what did they know about doing what’s right? Lord Beric had been the only real knight of their bunch and he was dead. They had no business judging her mother. It occurred to Arya that the Hound had once said something like that, too.

As if reading her mind, Gendry said, “The Arry I knew was honorable, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m _not_ Arry. I’m Arya Stark of—“

“Winterfell. Spare me, you’ve said it thousands of times.”

Arya’s mouth opened and closed angrily. “You’re just jealous because I finally found my family and you got none.”

Gendry stood up, staring long and hard at her. “I did,” he said. “You and Hot Pie. But I guess you never thought that way.”

He shoved past her and left her by the fire, shocked and, perhaps she will admit it, ashamed. She kicked at a pile of ashes, biting her lip, and went to seek out her mother. Because, _yes,_ she was still Arya’s mother no matter what else people called her.

Catelyn was sitting on a slab of stone, looking out into the darkness. Arya crept into her lap and even though it was cold, not warm, against her mother’s skin, Arya felt comforted.

“Mother, can you sing me a song?” Arya felt stupid. That was something Sansa would ask, but there was nothing more that Arya wanted at that moment.

Her mother just looked at her. Arya was suddenly reminded of Lord Beric and the distant, weary looks he would get.

“ _I don’t remember how,_ ” her mother rasped in her mangled voice.

Arya did not reply. She held onto her mother’s cloak under the full moon as somewhere wolves howled, and she was so, terribly sad she wanted to cry, but did not know why.


	8. Arya Stays in King's Landing, not Sansa

 

“… and you should have seen what she did to Joffrey,” Cersei hissed at Tyrion. “I swear, that Stark runt is a _demon._ I want that—that horrid little bitch—dead!”

Her brother just scratched his nose and looked at his fingers like he was oh so bored. Cersei wanted to kill him. _After_ she killed little Arya Stark.

“My sweet sister,” he drawled, “may I remind you that the Stark girl is your hostage. You can mistreat her any way you like— which I’m sure you already have tried— but you cut off her head, and Robb Stark will have all of ours. You may not weep at the loss of mine, but think of your golden children and our other dear brother. Jaime holds _some_ of your affections, does he not? And yourself, too. Your head would not look as beautiful rotting on the top of a pike—“

“Shut up. Did anyone ever tell you you talk too bloody much?”

“Not really. In fact, I am told I have the most lovely voice and the sharpest sense of humor,” said Tyrion.

Cersei took a much-needed deep gulp of wine.

“Fine, not dead,” she spat as she slammed her wine cup down, “but I want her _gone_.” She frowned. “Can’t we send her to Harrenhal with Father, or Casterly Rock?”

“If you send her to the riverlands you send her straight into the arms of her mother and brother. And may I remind you, _both_ Stannis and the Young Wolf stand between here and the Rock.”

Cersei sank into her seat in a groan. She hated it when Tyrion was right. Seven hells, her head was throbbing.

Tyrion looked like he was having trouble holding back laughter. The arsehole. “Aren’t you overreacting, Your Grace? Arya Stark is only a frightened ten-year-old girl who had lost her father.”

Cersei snorted. “I wouldn’t call her _frightened._ Angry and vicious are better words to describe her.”

 _Dangerous_ , thought Cersei, thinking of the grey eyes boring into Cersei’s skin when Cersei had locked her up and taken away that skinny sword of hers. The wolf child had been completely silent as she stared at Cersei. None of the usual shouts and curses and pathetic death threats. Cersei had stood before her, at first triumphant she had finally broken the Stark girl. But then, somehow the long silence and those eyes— surely they weren’t natural; they weren’t _human_ —had made Cersei suddenly remember words from long ago: _and when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his arms about your pale white throat and choke the life from you._ Of course, it was ridiculous. The valonqar was supposed to be Tyrion—her _brother_ , a _man—_ not Arya Stark, a little girl of no relation to her.

She snapped out of her reverie to see Tyrion studying her closely. “What?” 

Tyrion sat back, crossing his arms with a look of satisfaction. “I don’t believe it, sweet sister. _She’s_ not the one frightened. You are.”

“I am not. I am merely immensely irritated by her presence.”

Tyrion shook his head. “To think the great Queen Cersei, murderer of her lord husband and mother of a tyrant—“

She slapped him.

He smiled, rubbing his reddened cheek. “To think the great Queen Cersei is frightened of a ten-year-old girl not much taller than I… I was right,” he laughed. “Size doesn’t matter. Except in bed, I suppose…”

“You are also immensely irritating right now. Be gone. I _knew_ it was a waste of time to consult you about anything.”

Tyrion clambered to his feet. “Don’t lose your sanity just yet, Cersei. Let me have a talk with the little lady Arya.”

“You?” Cersei looked at him skeptically.

“I daresay I am better with children than you are,” said Tyrion with a smirk. He swaggered out of the room.

Cersei rolled her eyes and went to the window, clutching her wine. Her headache was still going strong. _Dear gods,_ she thought, massaging her temple, _why couldn’t you have left me with Sansa Stark instead…_


	9. Arya Fostered at Bear Island (aka War of Five Kings Never Happened)

Saying goodbye was hard after all, even though _she_ had been the one to beg for this day. Arya hugged her mother tightly, and had to bite her lips to keep them from trembling when her father kissed her on the forehead. Robb pinched her cheek as if she were still five, which Arya thought for the first time she would miss. Even Rickon looked like he was trying not to cry. He didn’t swat her hand away when she ruffled his hair, like Jon would do to hers before he left for the Wall. She remembered that day very clearly. She had been nine, and it was the hardest goodbye she had to do. But this one, this was not any easier, Arya realized.

“Write us, sweetling,” Mother said through teary eyes.

“Be good,” said Father, smiling, his arm around Mother.

“Nah,” disagreed Robb, "stay wild, little sister!” His wife Alys winked at Arya.

“Don’t get eaten by bears,” said Rickon.

Arya stuck out her tongue at that. “Bears don’t eat wolves, stupid. _We_ eat _them._ ”

Lady Mormont overheard this and laughed her loud, booming laugh. “We will see about that.”

One last round of hugs, and Arya swung herself onto her horse, a sleek grey mare Father had given her for her fifteenth name day. One of the finest horses in the north, Harwin had said. She’d named her Visenya. Nymeria hadn’t liked Arya’s new pet at first, jealous that Arya now rode Visenya more than her, but the two were on better terms now. Arya’s direwolf, whom Lady Mormont had allowed Arya to bring, much to her relief, was already ahead of them on the path. She looked back at them and cocked her head as if in exasperation at the wait.

Arya waved for as long as she could, craning her neck, as the sight of her family grew smaller, framed by the familiar stone walls of Winterfell. She felt a lump rise in her throat. No, she wouldn’t cry. She was a woman grown, and she wasn’t the weepy kind like Sansa.

“Now don’t you fret,” said Lady Mormont cheerfully. “Bear Island isn’t terribly far. You’ll be able to come back to Winterfell anytime you like.”

“I know,” said Arya, holding up her chin. She’d been to Castle Black before to visit Jon; Highgarden to accompany Sansa for her wedding; the Eyrie to watch Bran squire in his first tourney. Bear Island was much closer to Winterfell than any of those places, she’d paid that much attention to Maester Luwin’s lessons.

Lady Mormont just smiled. “My daughters are very excited to meet you.”

“All five of them?” Arya had already heard of the Mormont sisters. They all knew how to wield a sword, and each one was said to be as fierce as their mother.

“Jory and Lya are still living with me. They’ll be your training partners. The older ones have their own homes now, so you won’t see them as often. They’ll be there at your welcome feast, of course.”

“Are they married?”

“Married?” Lady Mormont guffawed. “Well, not in the sense you’re used to, I expect. Women of Bear Island have little need for husbands. We protect ourselves and we hunt for ourselves. The only use for men…” Lady Mormont raised an eyebrow suggestively. “At night, we have bears for that.”

Arya didn’t care much for lovers of the bear variety. Or lovers of any kind, really. She was just glad that nobody on Bear Island would be nagging her about looking presentable for suitors. Suddenly, the prospect of Bear Island was more enticing than ever. Her excitement returned and, in response, she kicked Visenya forward.

“Ho there!” Lady Mormont geared on her own horse, but she couldn’t outrace Arya. Nobody could, except maybe her late aunt. Arya leaned forward till she was almost flat against her horse, Nymeria keeping stride on the ground, the wind blowing strands of hair loose from her dark braid.

“You ride like a northman, my lady,” Lady Mormont shouted from behind her.

“I ride like a north _woman_ ,” Arya corrected. She grinned wolfishly. “Even better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who loves Lyanna Mormont in the show?!!  
> sorry the girls didn't get an appearance, you'll just have to imagine it xD


	10. Margaery and Robb alliance

 

The Queen of Thorns and Lady Catelyn Stark, mother of the King in the North, sat on two opposite sides of the table, staring each other down. Margaery sat between them, head bent over her embroidery. She was working on a rose pattern, which was quite boring, but it had its purpose. She had embroidered so many roses in her lifetime it had become a simple motion of her hands, leaving her mind free to think and most importantly, listen to the conversation taking place.

“Surely, you are not suggesting—?”

“I trust you know exactly what I am suggesting, Lady Stark,” said Grandmother, taking a delicate sip of tea. “You are a woman with a sound head on your shoulders, as I understand. Let’s not waste time going around the subject.”

Catelyn Stark watched her warily. The lady was a wary woman, Margaery could tell from the start. She was sharp-minded, as Grandmother had said, smart and ten times as cautious.

“I admit,” Lady Stark said slowly, “we do need your forces. But…”

Grandmother stirred her tea, waiting.

“My son is promised to Walder Frey’s daughter,” said Lady Stark. “He would not be pleased to hear I am breaking the betrothal after we have well-utilized his resources.”

Grandmother waved her hand. “Walder Frey’s ego triumphs his size of a brain. It’s true, a fool with no morals can still be dangerous. But even a dangerous fool must know his limits at the end of the day. The Freys are your father’s bannermen. _We_ are Wardens of the South.”

“That may be so,” said Lady Stark, “but it is still the honor of my son and my house at stake. The _north’s_ honor at stake, Lady Olenna.”

“I would never dare question the honor of your son, you or the north.” Grandmother rested her chin on one hand. “Well, I understand your difficulty. Let’s forget I ever said it, shall we? It was just one moment of folly from this silly old woman.”

“I agree,” said Lady Stark. She turned her gaze on Margaery. “I can’t imagine why you would wish your granddaughter to live the rest of her life in the dreary, icy north. She is so lovely, she belongs in a land of flowers and singers. It seems cruel to take her so far away from home on top of marrying her to a new husband so soon after she lost her first one."

Margaery raised her head to meet Lady Stark’s cool blue eyes. “You’re right, my lady. You understand young girls like me so well. Do you have daughters?”

It was as if a layer of flesh peeled off raw and fresh. Margaery went on anyway, her voice sweet and wistful.

“Oh, how much I would like to meet them… I always wanted sisters. They would miss their home dearly, but I think they will like Highgarden.”

Lady Stark upheld herself very well, but her silence betrayed her.

Grandmother clicked her tongue. “There, there, my lady. Please excuse my granddaughter. Clearly I have not taught her enough manners. Shoo, girl, out with you and your prattling tongue.”

Margaery bowed her head in apology and hurried to leave the room, taking with her the half-finished embroidery of roses. She had used red thread, and from far away they looked like splattered blood. _The rest is up to grandmother,_ Margaery thought, tucking a piece of brown curl behind her ear. Although she only had to look at the back of Lady Stark to know that the deal was cinched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my last one for a while. School is starting and all, bah


	11. Season 8 Arya and Gendry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah something short... to keep me happy until the show returns

 

 

 

 

“You’re coming with us?” Gendry asked incredulously.

Arya tossed her hair back, hand brushing the dagger she’d used to kill Littlefinger. She smirked. “Did you think you could leave me behind?”

“But… it’s dangerous. You haven’t seen the White Walkers. I did. And I’m telling you, they’re no joke—”

“Shut up, Gendry. I won’t slow you down if you promise you won’t slow me down.”

Gendry made an exasperated sigh.

“You don’t believe me?” said Arya. “Let’s spar.”

“Look, it’s not that…”

“Come on now, don’t be afraid.” Arya twirled Needle lightly in her hands. “I’ll keep the sheath on.”

He looked at her and then the sword, and shook his head, smiling. “I’ve gotten stronger, you know.”

Arya sank into her water stance, arching an eyebrow. “So have I.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
